


Gone

by FizzySodapop



Category: Alexander Hamilton - Fandom, Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Death, Eliza is sad, F/M, Philip shows up for a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 09:37:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15288687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FizzySodapop/pseuds/FizzySodapop
Summary: She remembers his presence as though it was yesterday.





	Gone

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if this was actually any good. I wrote it at, like, 11:30 last night so I was pretty zoned out for the most part, and I have no clue if this is one of those stories that I should keep hidden forever because of how terrible it is. But I guess we'll find out, huh? Anyways, I hope you enjoy this, whether it's because it's so bad you laugh or so good you cry. :)

She remembers his presence as though it was yesterday. 

She recalls the way that he used to stand behind her when she was cooking. She doesn’t remember exactly what the meals might have been on the various occasions, but those minor details are hardly important. She remembers that some days, when he had fifteen minutes to stop working, he would sneak up behind her and spring on her like a wind-up toy, flinging his arms around her. She would jump in surprise and turn around and scold him as he laughed, but on the inside she loved it because it was him and they were together and laughing, and it was beautiful. His presence was an ocean that washed over her, bathing her in perfect joy and serenity. 

She remembers how even when they were not together, he still managed to be present. How during the days, weeks, months after the world found out about him and the girl in the red dress, he shut himself in his office and wrote for hours. She still isn’t sure what, exactly, he had been writing; perhaps he burnt the pages, perhaps not, but she supposes that now it isn’t important. But even when he was on the opposite side of the house, even when she would not, could not, let him within ten feet of her, his mournful presence lingered around her; in the silence, in the smell of his cologne all over the bedsheets, in the scratches of his quill against parchment whenever she walked by his office, in the faces of their children. She remembers this, and though it was entirely unpleasant when all she wanted to do was to forget that he existed, now she would give almost anything to have his silent presence hang about her like a cloud once again. 

She also remembers his presence when they were reunited- after the death of their son. She remembers screaming as her curly-haired boy (un, deux, trois-) faltered in his counts; he had been dutiful until his last breath, reciting his numbers for her in French like they’d practiced on the piano so many years before. She remembers the man standing beside her, grief-stricken and almost staggering in pain, reaching out for her as an out for both of them; a way to stand together and help each other to stay upright during this next, horrible trial. She remembers jolting away from that hand as though it was fire, instead choosing to cling to the motionless figure lying on the table (un, deux, trois-) as sobs shook her body and she could no longer stand. The next memories are hazy, but she vaguely recalls the shaking, shuddering, crying man’s hand on her back as he led her home. He made himself strong enough for the both of them when she could not bear the weight of her world. She avoided him for weeks after that, with an aching, dull pain in her chest. She forced herself to be a wall of emotionless strength after that one night during which she had allowed him to take care of her. She remembers his persistence, how his presence, which she tried to fan away as if it were a cloud of dust, was purposefully bright for her sake. She remembers closing her eyes against his efforts, trying to shut out the tiny ray of his hope that was slowly chipping its way into her heart. And then, she remembers a day in the garden, when he had turned to her with a heartbroken smile and tears of desperation and exhaustion and grief and joy and love in his eyes, and she cracked. His presence as she clung to him, body wracked with sobs, was a warm blanket draped around her shoulders, offering the most comfort she could have asked for. She remembers shaking against him as, after so many years of torment, peace settled over her. 

And then, it stopped. 

She remembers how, in the blink of an eye, his presence was gone. She remembers waking up one morning to an entirely still house; he was not in bed and it appeared that he had not been for hours. She remembers brushing it off; remembering how he’d told her of his meeting at dawn and absently wishing that he had more time to spend with his family instead of always being stuck with his political acquaintances. She went about her chores that morning without the slightest idea that something was amiss. 

That is, until the clock struck twelve. She had begun to worry a little bit before that, but had kept her fears to herself, assuming that his meeting had run late. She remembers the next part in flashes only. 

She remembers a frantic man at her door. Something about a duel and a gunshot and death. She remembers a stinging pain on the soles of her feet as she ran outside without shoes in a hurry to get to her husband. She remembers flying into a small room, skirts billowing behind her, as her vision blurred with tears and she saw him. 

She remembers clinging to his presence in those last moments. She held his hand to her face and closed her eyes as he spoke, letting his words wash over her. His voice. His volume levels, his intonations, his emotions. She isn’t sure what, exactly, he’d been saying when the words stopped, but she can tell you exactly when it happened, for her blood ran deathly cold and his hand went limp against her cheek. 

She remembers the way that her home was empty of his presence when she got home. She remembers having to look into the eyes of their children and tell them that, no, Father wouldn’t be coming home. 

She remembers trying desperately to find his presence once again. She remembers rolling over, again and again, on the bedsheets in an attempt to find even a hint of his scent. She remembers listening to one of the younger children practicing their letters on parchment paper and trying in vain to convince herself that it was him. She remembers wrapping herself in old coats of his, seeking desperately for even a fleeting wisp of his warmth. 

She also remembers being mostly unsuccessful. 

Yet, although she cannot feel his presence anymore- not the wave, not the cloud, not the blanket- she can remember it. Oh, how she remembers it. She remembers it as though he were here yesterday, scaring her out of her wits as she made supper, stubbornly refusing to be forgotten even when her only mission was to make him so, holding her up when she could not support herself anymore. She remembers the peace that he gave her before his death.

Now, she knows silence. She knows an empty house once full of children that grew up too fast and left her behind, and she knows padding up and down the halls on nights during which she cannot sleep. She knows loneliness. She knows a restless feeling that calls her to do more, be more, say more, and she knows a despair that tells her that nothing she does could ever be enough. 

This, now, is her reality. But sometimes, when she lies back on that old, scentless bed, she closes her eyes and allows herself to remember a humming presence- happy, despairing, tired, hopeful- that was once her everything. And then, she drifts off to sleep, and everything is quiet, and she is alone once more.


End file.
